


Will's (Quiet) Hands

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autism, Gen, Stimming, Vague descriptions of medical abuse, handflapping, hints of Will/Hannibal if you look, quiet hands, then again so is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Will accidentally handflaps in front of Hannibal. Then they talk a lot about stimming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will's (Quiet) Hands

They were nearing the end of a particularly difficult case. Four deaths in two weeks, and little to connect the murders together save for red yarn tied around each of the victim’s throats. Things were fitting together now, though, and every piece that snapped together made Will feel a little more whole: the way each victim knew another; the way the wounds, although different, seemed to echo another’s; and the most important piece of all, the mythology of the “red string of fate”—four victims, two pairs.

“He or she is killing people they think should be together,” Will explained, pacing back and forth in front of Hannibal. “So that they can be together in death, if not life. This killer thinks of themself as a matchmaker of some sort.” It was a unique kind of contentment and feeling of accomplishment that Will would feel in these moments—like the satisfaction of getting a broken boat motor working again, putting everything in its right place and seeing everything function so _well_. Plus, there was just the simple knowledge that this killer would soon be caught, and who knew how many people could have died otherwise?

“I’ll tell Jack to look for any ‘matchmakers’ in the victims’ various networks. These aren’t random people the killer found on the street: They need to know who’s _right_ for each other.” And that was it—that was Will’s part done. Content, Will continued to pace up and down his usual track. Right, left, right. He could probably do it in his sleep.

Hannibal watched silently for some time before saying, “What are you doing with your hands, Will?”

Will halted mid-step. His hands were up by his chest, fingers curled and wrists rotating as they flapped—Will was _handflapping_ and it wasn’t in the privacy of his own home, surrounded by dogs, those few moments when  he was just too tired or too excited and his control slipped; it was in front of this man he respected so much, this man who already had more than enough reasons to think he was completely insane, and— _quiet hands!_ —Will’s hands snapped down to his sides so hard it almost hurt. Shame washed over him: Christ, he was how old now, and still fighting against something as simple as this? Why couldn’t he just _smile_ when excited like a goddamn normal person? He had nothing to say, no excuse, and so simply gawked at Hannibal.

The doctor’s eyebrows were furrowed, a nearly imperceptible frown on his lips. “You don’t have to stop yourself,” he said. “I’ve never seen you stim before. Is this new?”

Out of Hannibal’s mouth, _stim_ was a four-letter word. Will shook his head and very nearly returned to pacing before catching himself and, instead, sitting back in his seat. Eye contact was always hard, but now Will could hardly look at the same side of the room as Hannibal; instead, he stared off to the side and tried to find something fascinating about the office door.

“Ah,” said Hannibal. Something startlingly dark dripped at the edges of that single syllable, although Will and his self-hatred assumed that must be negative judgment. “They tried to make you stop, then?”

Why phrase it as a question? As if it was something _not_ to be stopped. Will nodded. “They did a good job,” he said. “I just… mess up, sometimes.”

A beat passed, and Hannibal leaned forward. “What did they do, Will?”

Will had the strange feeling that there were two different conversations occurring here. The concern in Hannibal’s voice wasn’t unusual by any means, just misplaced. To clarify, he asked, “To make me stop stimming?” When Hannibal nodded, he continued, “Nothing too big. I learned quickly. Just, uh—told me to stop a lot, held my hands down when I didn’t.” Despite trying to stop all movement that could come from his disloyal body, Will shifted in his seat. The fact that he needed to be stopped at all was shameful, and talking about it made embarrassing memories resurface: Will as a stupid little kid, fidgeting and moving in all sorts of ridiculous ways, alternatively caught up in the excitement of so many great minds around him and shutting down because of the noisy emotions everywhere he turned. He always seemed to be letting the adults down.

He then let out a short, humorless laugh. He _knew_ there was something he was saying that Hannibal would psychoanalyze him with. “The worst part was when they made me look at people,” he added. “Eye contact. They’d hold my head for hours—or, you know, what felt like it.” As if to demonstrate, he glanced back at Hannibal, but surprisingly, instead of the self-assured look of a psychoanalyst about to say something clever, he wore that same frown.

“And they made you think you deserved it, I see.” The edges of his words were sharp, consonants uttered unusually tensely. Will couldn’t be sure what to make of it—anger, but at who? Will himself, for failing?

“What?”

“Did it occur to you, Will, that your stimming did not bother me in the slightest?” The darkness in his voice swirled like thunderclouds on the horizon.

Will found himself put on the defensive. “So you’d be _fine_ with me acting like a—?”

Hannibal so rarely interrupted him. “In fact, I would much prefer you be open with me. This is a safe space for you, Will.”

“You’re my therapist.” It came out like an accusation. “Shouldn’t you be helping me _fix_ these sorts of things?”

“If it _were_ something to fix, it should certainly be the least of your concerns.” A brief pause. The tenseness around Hannibal eased somewhat. “Would you mind humoring me and flapping again? The same way you just were.”

A chill ran up Will’s spine and made him straighten up. He didn’t have the time to analyze what emotion caused it, though. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

It was hard for Will _not_ to trust Hannibal. That didn’t make it feel any more wrong—being _asked_ to handflap? By Hannibal, no less? Will could only lift his hands a few inches off of his lap before freezing. Maybe it was all a test to determine how well Will could control himself. He imagined his hands twitching even the tiniest bit and Hannibal responding with a quick, “Quiet hands.” Will slapped his hands down.

Hannibal’s expression was as calm and collected as ever, that same concerned frown just _there_. He didn’t say anything; only the slightest raising of eyebrows served as a gentle nudge.

Will breathed in, now embarrassed that this was something that he had to prepare so heavily for. Hannibal was probably just curious; Will would stim a bit, then never be asked to again. He raised his hands and curled his fingers into a position that felt shamefully familiar, then flapped. It was forced at first—and Will forced a smile to try to demonstrate how awkward it felt. It was one of those times Will hated how uniquely unreadable Hannibal was: Judgment or disappointment would make sense, be expected, but Hannibal just continued to look like Hannibal and Will tried to convince himself that was okay.

A few seconds of handflapping and Will found his body’s natural movements taking over: He rocked slightly, forwards and back, and his legs twitched to some sort of internal rhythm. His hands changed slightly in movement—he wasn’t excited now, so the excited movements didn’t apply. Will didn’t have to think about it, and it made him realize how often he _did_ have to think about what how his body should be moving, about when and how to smile and frown.

And Hannibal didn’t look at him like a freak ( _the freak he was_ ). Will slowly stopped, not wanting his stimming to take up the entire meeting (and he couldn’t get over the feeling that it was _too distracting_ ), and sought out Hannibal’s eyes for something encouraging. In response, Hannibal smiled.

“You seem more comfortable with yourself stimming,” explained Hannibal, “than when you’re not. It’s terrible that people shamed you out of that.” And again there was the darkness. If Hannibal was a dangerous person, Will would have been frightened. “Of course, I don’t expect that you’ll be able to suddenly be able to override your childhood and stim openly again, but you might consider working on it. It may help ground you.”

Between Hannibal and all those childhood therapists, Will knew whose advice he preferred; still, he was burdened by a feeling of wrongness and guilt. He owed Hannibal some kind of attempt, though. He brought a hand up and flicked it, just twice, then forced a smile—both felt awkward, but at least the handflapping felt familiar.

“And one last thing.” Hannibal leaned forward and readied his pen. “Those therapists from your childhood—do you, by chance, remember any of their names? It may be beneficial for me to discuss with them. As your psychologist.”

A pause that took a few moments too long. The idea of professionals talking about Will behind his back wasn’t new by a long shot, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. Still, he told Hannibal the names he could remember.

The next week, Hannibal announced a lengthy vacation, from which he returned more cheery than usual. Will made sure to greet him with a handflap at their next meeting.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m autistic, but haven’t experienced the sorts of things Will is describing here, so apologies if I’ve messed anything up/if anything seems off.


End file.
